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Message-ID: <43582asstr$1059261005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: {ASSM} Last Summer by Vickie Tern 11/11 TG femdom wife
Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2003 19:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                           Last Summer

                         by Vickie Tern




                              xi.

                          Epilogue.

A few days later it was Saturday again, and Craig and I went at it
again more strenuously than ever.  We fucked like rabbits, but we
also talked more than we usually did.  

He told me that my husband's ass was sexier than mine, softer to
press against on the downward lunge and cuter to look at.  He was
trying to get to me, but it didn't take.  I just told him I didn't
doubt it, that my lovely girlfriend's ass turned me on too.  That
an ass like Scottie's was a work of art, a bubble-butt created like
a sculpture, while mine was only what nature happened to provide by
chance.  

He told me that Scottie's tits were larger and his nipples more
sensitive than mine, that Scottie had gotten his first orgasm that
night just from his touching them.  I told him that of course I
knew that, I've often done that to him.  That I envied Scottie
those nipples.  But -- as I reminded Craig -- we all have certain
gifts other people lack.  In my case it's a cunt.  

Then when Craig had his tongue buried deep in that cunt and
couldn't respond, licking up the cum from his first few climaxes as
I'd demanded -- his later spurtings were always reserved for
Scottie -- I told him I'd ruin him professionally if he ever tried
to contact my husband without first asking my permission.

His manner changed, and he pulled his head out of my pussy and
spoke gravely.  He said that he'd never do such a thing, that he
was a sexual dilletante but not a home wrecker, that he knew I'd
deliberately used him to take Scottie's cherry, he didn't know why
but that I must have had my reasons.  Maybe to help Scottie lose
his silly male inhibitions about fucking men, now that he was a
woman?  Maybe because I wanted to break him in before whoring him,
putting him out on the street -- a prostitute after all earns far
more than a college professor?  Craig didn't know.  But he'd felt
privileged that I'd entrusted him with that task, and he'd taken
special care.  He'd fucked my man carefully and skillfully out of
the respect and friendship he felt for me, and that was why Scottie
had gone out of his mind from the pleasure.  

"You know, Mandy, apart from you being a great fuck, and your
husband too, I do like you.  If you weren't already married I'd
consider it.  If you'd have me, which I doubt."

I believed him, and I felt honored.  So much so that for once I let
him splash my body with his semen repeatedly, his notion of how to
score on me, for most of the afternoon.  I then playfully splashed
him back with my own most available bodily fluid, showering him
from head to foot, scoring back at him, and he didn't seem to mind
that either.  We then both showered together, as we rarely did, and
while standing there we soaped and fucked each other yet again.  

The following Saturday we did the same, aware that it was our last
encounter.  We bade each other farewell with each wriggle and reach
and thrust of cock or pussy, each nod of head and flick of tongue
into or onto each other's genital areas.  Each time we climaxed or
brought the other to orgasm, it seemed a September song, beautiful
yet sad, deeply satisfying.  Our affair had ended.  No regrets.  We
kissed and parted, and for the last time I returned home to my
sweet Scottie to sit on his face and feel his lovely tongue clean
Craig out of me. 
 
Finally, autumn had come.  Scottie's classes would begin again in
two weeks.  I awakened to the final Sunday after the final Saturday
of my marvelous summer affair with Craig, glad that it had ended
while we could still feel gratitude and affection for each other
but before Scott could discover what we'd been doing.   Now Scott
could become a man again, something of a man, if he wanted to.  If
he could.  If not, I'd live with whatever he did decide.

So now, this first Sunday in September, I lay there watching the
dust motes in the sunlight streaming around the edges of our window
blinds, waiting for my beloved husband to wake up, breathing in the
lilac aroma of his soft, satiny skin.  One of his breasts had
tumbled free from the bodice of his nightgown, and its long, deep
pink nipple hung open to the quiet morning air as if waiting for
heavenly lips to close on it and begin to suck.  His hairdo seemed
impeccable even when tumbled loosely on his pillow, as always. 
Especially  well-groomed because he'd spent yesterday with Doreen
making himself beautiful, just as I'd spent it with Craig making
love.  Would he now revert?  Had he now had his final beauty salon
appointment?  I'd miss sharing our morning make-up sessions.  I'd
miss my sweet girlfriend.  But he'd kept his promise so I had to
keep mine.  It was the first morning of the rest of our lives.

He was sleeping late, my Scottie.  I didn't want to miss out on the
last of the Sunday mornings I'd spend sitting on my girlfriend's face
while he sucked up to me, cleansing my cunt of Craig's cum, but
I didn't want to awaken my girlfriend either.  So I slipped out of
bed quietly and decided to pass the time looking for bank records,
so I'd have them if he decided to leave me after all.  And there 
in a lower drawer of his desk I found all of Scottie's other
journals.  One was his personal diary, and I read through it.  He'd
asked me to write my version of the summer's events for his uses,
and I meant to, and later that day I did do just that.  This is
it, in fact.  But now, while my sweet Scottie was still asleep, 
I read his full version, all of his entries, journal after
journal.  And that changed everything.

It could be a lot worse, I realized.  My Scottie is still the
dear person I married, even though he isn't the man I married any
more.  We're closer than ever.  My tempestuous affair with Craig is
now in the past, a memory I'm glad to have.  I love my life.  But
it turns out that a lot of the summer wasn't necessary, in fact 
none of it.  

I didn't tell him right away that I'd read it, his personal diary,
because he likes feeling nobly self-sacrificing for me and
I didn't want to deprive him of that feeling too soon.  Though when
I hand him this whole account of the summer from my point of view
so he can incorporate it into his book, including what I'm writing
right now, and when he reads it, he'll know a lot more than he knows
now.  Maybe more than he wants to know.

What kinds of entries were there in that diary of his?  Quite a few
revelations.


Things like:

"My wife is having an affair.  Last Saturday she was late for
dinner, so I called Cheryl's to see if there's been an accident or
something.  A woman named Mort answered.  She told me Cheryl wasn't
home either, but that Cheryl had phoned to say she'd be "otherwise
occupied" well into the evening.  Mort added to reassure me that
meant she was all right but expected soon to be intimate with a man
she'd just met, and that probably Amanda was otherwise occupied too
with the man's friend.  "Doesn't Amanda phone to say she'll be late
when she meets a guy and wants to go straight to bed with him?"
Mort asked me.  "Cheryl always does!  You should tell her to
remember to call you in the future."   

Then when she got home she reeked of sex and was covered with cum,
dried sperm clotting her hair and peeling off her face and even her
bare legs -- later I found her pantyhose in her purse.  Even her
ass had been fucked, a place where I'd never been --  she couldn't
sit straight when she went to the far end of the room to fend me
off.  Then she picked a fight and stormed off so I wouldn't notice
any of these things.  Something about my not understanding what it
is to be a woman.

What should I do?  She's my wife, and I love her, and she's in the
throes of a passion we don't either of us understand, and she's
probably all torn up inside.  She's doing what she must, I don't
doubt it, doing what she can't help doing.  Yet what we have
together is a solid marriage, and I don't want to lose it.  If I
tell her I know she's seeing another man, I'll have to follow
through and insist she end the relationship or I'll leave her, or
else seem to be a pathetic cuckold.  I'd have to be insensitive or
a wimp.  But what if she can't end it?   And what if she can, but
would feel forever deprived of a glorious opportunity?  I can't
take something like that away from her!  

So I won't say anything.  I'll wait it out.  How long?


Things like:

I feel very strange.  Mandy wants me to be a woman while she's
having this affair with this man, whoever he is.  She wants me to
be her lesbian lover for the summer and without my supposedly
knowing she wants to feed me his cum from her pussy after she fucks
him.  I suppose that's the only way she can deal with this
obsession of hers, by putting me down and out of the way as the man
in her life, being secretly nasty, yet keeping me close by her
because she still loves me and wants to live her life with me after
her affair with this man ends.  She doesn't want to end our
marriage no more than I do.  I don't see anything I can do now
except go along with her and wait.  I don't mind dressing up as a
woman for her, though it would be embarrassing for me if anyone
knew.


Things like:

She dressed me up to look like a girl tonight and then she took me
out for dinner and a movie.  I was terribly nervous, and sure
enough, Marge and Annemarie saw me.   Annemarie raised her eyebrow
at me the way she does in committees when she doesn't understand
why I'm saying or doing something and wants to ask me silently what
I'm up to.  I'd better call her tomorrow.  The movie was about a
wife who runs off with another man and a husband who waits
patiently for her to come back, which she does eventually.  The
moral for me seems plain enough.  Did the husband have a choice? 
He loved her.  Do I have a choice?


Things like:

I feel so mellow all the time.  I took out my purse and looked in
the mirror and there was this sort of smartass blonde with a
high-piled hairdo looking back at me.  That's me now, can you
imagine?  I'd forgotten, but that's who I am for the summer, my
hairdresser has to keep reminding me of it.  Doreen is her name. 
I love my fingernails.  When I got home Mandy thought I was
beautiful and she took me straight to bed and fed me a whole
pussy full of her boyfriend's fresh cum.  Yum!  She's so very dear,
sharing him with me.  Maybe I should get one of my own?  It would
be easy enough, looking the way I do now.  I'll go ask her. 

She didn't think so.  She said not right now.  She said I should go
to bed and sleep it off.  So, nighty night!


Things like:

I have tits now.

Where will it end?  I came here to get rid of my beard and a few
other hairs, for minor laser and electrolysis treatments, and I'm
leaving with a figure like Dolly Parton's.  Mandy must be feeling
really needy, really desperate to deprive me of all semblances of
manhood, to want to change me so radically, put my manly attributes
out of her life altogether and yet at the same time try to make it
up to me by giving me these marvels of femininity.  They feel
incredible, heavy and beautifully shaped -- I can't keep my hands
off them!  I'm so proud of them I want the world to know!  Tight
sweaters only for me from now on!

And all the while I've been here she's been fucking her boyfriend
day and night.  Her office tells me she went sailing to Bermuda and
won't be back until tomorrow, when I'll be getting back to town
too.  It doesn't seem fair that she got the cruise and I got the
booby prize (just joking)! 

But I'd better not let her know that I know why she did this to me. 
I'll make a fictitious entry in that day book journal she's been
reading where I'll speculate that it's maybe because she's a closet
lesbian.  Even though I know better -- they don't come more
man-crazed than Mandy.  But if I don't enter anything she'll wonder
why I'm not wondering why she did this to me, why I'm not hurt or
insulted or outraged or baffled, and she'll begin to suspect I know
the truth about her affair.  As I do.  

But if she knew I knew about her uncontrollable passion for this
guy, whoever he is, it would devastate her.  She couldn't handle
it.  Between her feelings of guilt, her frustration, her antagonism
toward me for interfering, and her thwarted passion she'd tear our
marriage to shreds.  So I need to protect her from knowing I know.

And the fact is, I don't mind having these boobs.  Not having them
but trying to be a woman anyhow has been inconvenient.  Now I feel
authentic.  They open a whole new world to me.  And besides, they
feel incredibly sexy.  

And did I mention that I now have a woman's butt too?  I can wear
pants again and never for a moment be mistaken for a man!  Those
guys on the street who pinch my ass in passing now really have
something to get their fingers into.  But I won't encourage them.


Things like:

Mort thinks we should stop seeing each other so often.  Cheryl
doesn't mind the way we've been going at it so hot and heavy
lately, and she promises not to tell Mandy, but it's getting pretty
intense, all this smooching and stroking, all this fingering of
each other's pussies.  Even though the orgasms are fantastic.  

I think Mort's feeling grieved because I won't suck his clit to
climax even though he sucks mine every time we meet.  I keep
telling him I want to be a one-man girl, I want to keep my mouth
faithful to Mandy's lover's cum, to respect the integrity of
Mandy's decision to share it with me, whatever her reasons.  That's
my way to stay married and faithful to her.  I wish Mort could
understand that.  

More and more I like being a girl.  In fact I love it!  Especially
now that Marge and Annemarie have accepted me as one of them, and
allow me to get naked and form a daisy chain with them now and
then.  We sometimes lick each other non-stop, round and round all
afternoon when we should be doing our proper work.  And sometimes
we use dildos on each other.  I wish my 'meat dildo' as Marge calls
it would get stiff enough to use on them.  I love getting fucked. 
But I also love just being one of the girls together with them,
hanging out, chatting, just being with them the way Mandy likes to
be with me, she says.  And often is, when she has the time.  It's
really lovely.


Things like:

Last night Mandy set me up to suck a guy's cock.   She sucked
another guy's, but I think only to encourage me and keep me
company.  We found them in a bar.  He was a nice man, and he hadn't
the foggiest that I wasn't a desirable girl.  It wasn't easy for
me, watching Mandy suck off the other guy, I am her husband after
all, and it shook me up so badly I could hardly hold my own guy's
cock in my mouth.  But that's how it is, she's faithful to me in
her fashion, and I have to live with it.  So now I'm a cocksucker. 
She has something else in mind for me too, I don't know what.  Nor
why.

Anyhow, today I called Mort up and told him now it was all right,
I was willing now to go all the way with him orally.  We met for
lunch at Les Bergeres and then we went to a motel, and it was
wonderful how we slipped under each other's skirts and then sucked
on each other's clits all afternoon, and never even felt the need
to undress!  Mine stays soft, but what it can't shoot out leaks
out, and it all feels wonderful.  We arranged to do the same thing
next week, first lunch, then blissfully suck on each other.

Mort is a sweet girl.  He's been such a big help to me, what with
all his advice about girlish mannerisms and makeup and shopping,
little tricks to make a girl's life easier.  And repeating to me
over and over, stay with your wife, wait out the summer.  That's
what he does, in fact that's what he'll be doing for his whole
life, not just one summer.  He knows it isn't easy.


Things like:

Last night Mandy's boyfriend fucked me.  I could tell that's who he
was, because who else would have dared to do that in our own living
room with Mandy only a few steps away in the kitchen.  A setup. 
But do I mind?  It's wonderful to be a woman when there are men
like that in the world, I know that now!  I don't blame Mandy one
bit.  In fact I'm grateful she really shared this time, her whole
man, not just his leftovers!  I'll try to return the favor some
day.  

Now that I've been well-fucked I might want to stay this way when
the summer's over, though I won't tell Mandy that just yet.  She'll
need time to get used to the idea that she could find herself a
lawfully married lesbian.  We've agreed already that if I remain a
woman, we'll have casual relations with men whenever we feel the
need.  So no fear I'll ever be deprived of that, now that I know
how it feels.


Things like:

This morning I told my Dean I'd be returning to the campus this
fall as a woman, if he didn't mind.  He didn't.  In fact he told me
it would be illegal for him to mind, that in fact he was rather
pleased to hear I'd found my true calling, if that's what it is. 
Then he joked that of course now I'm a woman he'll have to reduce
my salary by one-third to keep it in line with what other women
earn.  I told him I was about to say "Fuck you" in response, but
that ladies don't use that kind of language except for one thing,
and I didn't want him to think I was propositioning him.  Our
regular monthly poker game is still on, even though I'm now a
woman.  "Your money's still good," he said as we shook hands.  He
gave me a courtly kiss on the cheek, too.  I better get used to
that kind of thing.   

The people at the Driver's License Bureau were less polite, but
they were efficient, so I now have a changed license with my new
photo.  I'm a blonde officially now.

Mandy seems sad.  I think she's feeling the way anyone would when
a grand passion ends.  And she still doesn't know whether our
marriage will also end a few days from now, when all our agreements
end.  Poor thing.  I've known for two weeks now, ever since that
hunk of hers fucked me, but the uncertainty's good for her.  I'll
try to make it up to her afterward, be her best girlfriend ever and
all.  Mort is already pleased, because our little luncheon trysts
together can now become a regular thing.  I'm so glad I took his
advice and decided not to force the issue, but instead to stay
married and wait.  Some day maybe Mandy'll feel she can confess all
to me, tell me what she's been doing this summer and why she
thought she had to feminize me, tell me all about this Craig she
was seeing.  The poor dear.  But I won't force her.  I love her. 
I can wait.




Well, that's the kind of thing I found in my Scottie's private
diary.  Isn't he sweet?  Isn't he a self-centered, manipulative,
pompous hypocrite?  He knew about me and Craig all along, how
trapped and ashamed I felt, the bastard, and he used me, he allowed
me to feel responsible for doing to him exactly what he wanted me
to do, so he could enjoy the pleasures of unwitting martyrdom,
stoop to become a woman and then rise nobly to the challenge!  He
seemed so understanding, so tenderly concerned for me!  And all the
while I was feeling so terribly guilty about what he didn't know,
and what I was doing to him, and what I had to do to him to relieve
my guilt and keep my dread secret safe.  But he already knew!  

And here he is pretending to be unsure how he'll decide to live,
maybe leave me, maybe resume his manliness, maybe stay in the sex
I supposedly forced him into, when in fact he's already decided and
filed the papers and made it official.  And meanwhile he's been
cavorting with Mort, and Marge, and Annemarie, and who knows who
else, not feeling the slightest bit ashamed or guilty.  Enjoying
it!  And all through the journal he parades his compassionate
understanding and forgiveness of himself and sometimes even of me!

Well, I'm now purged of guilt for my transgressions against him. 
He used me as an excuse to drift into different transgender
humiliation fantasies he's always had and never shared with me I
guess, different forced submission scenarios.  Now I'll see to it
that he lives in them for the rest of his life!  I mean to put him
to the test.  When he wakes up, the first thing I'll do is feed 
him his last portion of Craig's cum, between his teeth, and when 
he's swallowed it all down, yum, I'll deliver him an ultimatum.  

I'll tell him he really has no choice.  He's been a woman for three
months now so if he's to live with me that's what he'll have to be
for the rest of his life.  Because that's what he'll always be in
my mind from now on anyhow.  If he goes back to being a man I'll
always see him as an effeminate facsimile man.  I'll always
remember how pretty he looked in his bras and panties no matter how
manly his appearance, and of course he'll always have those nipples
even if he tries to get breast reduction surgery.  Once my
girlfriend, I'll tell him, always my girlfriend, and never again a
masculine lover, never ever again the most distant imitation of a
real man like Craig.

That much maybe he won't mind, since he's already decided to do me
a favor and live as my girlfriend from now on.  But he'll need to
consider this too.  I may be his loving wife, but he knows what
I've done, so I'll always also be an adulteress in his eyes.  We
both know that.  He won't be able to forget it.  I know he'll
always be tempted to get off on that fantasy, to picture me
fucking someone else, so I mean to help him envision just that.
Often.  

He won't mind, not deep down.  He really does love the idea, that's
why he didn't insist I stop the moment he saw what I was doing, saw
that I was obsessed with screwing Craig over and over.  He didn't
feel broken up at all!  That's how come I was able to emasculate
him so easily and feminize him so thoroughly, and that's why week
after week he meekly licked up Craig's spunk as if he didn't know
what it was!  I was right, he should be a woman!  As a woman, he'll
never need to compete for my affections with the Craigs of this
world, and he should know this.  He should also know that as a man
he'll always be nowhere, out of the running.

So as he likes to say, he has no choice.  Those are the paths we've
each chosen to walk, me forever a passionate adulteress, and him
forever a feminized cuckold.  So be it.  I can't ever again live
with him as a man.  

But as a woman I can still respect him.  Respect her, I mean, even
admire her.  And love her, love her deeply even.  She's still the
girl I married, gentle and clever, and a wonderful companion. 
She'll always be my favorite husband.  I'll never have a better,
and I'll never want one!

That's what I told Scottie when she finally woke up.  For once she
was genuinely remorseful.  She fell into my arms in tears, and we 
then discussed the whole matter slowly and carefully.  I showed her
everything I'd written , and told her the rest, and we talked about
alternatives.  Leaving me was out of the question for her,
unthinkable, she loves me, she said.  Meaning perhaps that she's
addicted to what I've been doing to her for the past three months,
she loves her feminine submission fantasies, but I'm sure that some
of it is genuine love, that she cares deeply for me.  In the end
she agreed to remain a woman, and that's what she'll be from now
on, without pretending this time that it's all for my sake.  

Our marriage is more important than anything else in her life, she
told me, and she'd do anything to preserve it.  I believe her. 
"Even cut off your balls?" I asked her on impulse.  She already
has, very nearly, figuratively speaking, I was thinking.  I
insisted that she nod 'yes,' and slowly, she did just that.

Yes!  The poor dear.  "It must be terrible to be obsessed like
this," I told her.  "But we both have to ride it out, don't we. 
And hope.  Then when it's all over, we'll be able to see what's
left."  Those words seemed vaguely familiar to her, but all she did
was nod again.

So she'll start on proper hormones, and in the not-too-distant
future we'll get her a proper vagina to please the men we'll
occasionally pick up and fuck when one of us gets the urge.  As for
sucking my cunt when it's dripping cum, I always did love seeing
her wide eyes staring up at me while those pillowy lips were
pressed against my own lips, and nowhere in that journal of hers
did my darling ever complain of indigestion.  She'll have
opportunities.

My sweet, beautiful Scottie.  My lovely girl!   I do so love her! 
 From now on I intend to live guilt free, and my darling will live
that way with me and like it.  She won't have any choice in the 
matter.  I'll see to it that I make all the decisions.

Oh yes.  When I got to the office the next day, after kissing my
lovely Scottie goodbye at the door and reminding her to make some
new appointments with Doreen, I found a call back from Craig
waiting for me.  We talked business a while, and then we talked
about the summer.  He still thinks he got the better of me, all in
all.  I still think I can prove he's wrong, and one of these days
I mean to do just that, and I know just how.  

I mean, I still have more of those pills, and Doreen has lots more.
I'm sure one or two would help that go-getter feel much more laid
back, more comfortable with some of my ideas for him whenever I see 
him.  My Scottie's ass and mouth for example, they're still yearning
for that cock of his, and he's already offered to help fill both.  
In return, Scottie could teach Craig something about cock sucking, 
maybe even let Craig practice on his limp dick, let my darling
feel it stiffen up a few times more before we exchange it for 
something more appropriate.  If I can set up the right 
circumstances, that is, and if Mort's willing to move over and 
make room for someone else's head in Scottie's crotch.  Then from
that humble beginning maybe I can move Craig on to bigger things?  

Yes!  I don't think I need yet another girlfriend.  Scottie might 
get jealous, so I'd need to keep it a secret.  But we'll see.



End
 
(c) 2003 by Vickie Tern.  All rights reserved, etc.  May be copied
to free archives if the free archivist feels free to let me know.
Others, well, ask me.
VickieTern@AOL.COM

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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